We deplane into a small airport terminal which is like stepping back into time. Time in the 1930’s. It smells like it too! The air on this continent smells like a mix of must, mould, burning garbage and sewage. I get in a long cue for a VISA along with a couple hundred of other of my fellow passengers. Only two immigration officers are working and seem to be joking more than working. After a long wait in line, it is my turn, I don’t even know where I’m staying tonight! Half my immigration form is empty. The agent welcomes me to Uganda, takes a digital photo of me, and electronically scans my finger prints. She doesn’t care about the form I obsessed over, instead throws it into a pile, asks for $50 and stamps my passport. With a big toothy grin she once again welcomes me to her country. I pick up my bag at the baggage carousel and start looking for my company contact, who I don’t know. How hard is it to pick out a white Canadian guy in a crowd of Africans? Not hard as it seems. He is standing by the front door of the terminal. Here we are the minority and stand out!
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